12th March. Went yesterday evening to have a drink at the flat of Perruque, the Academician. In order to preserve the myth that those artistic throw-outs are 'immortal' the Government has put them all in the whole-time life category. Perruque's complacency and hypocrisy were really revolting. There were about fifteen of us there, all rationed and using up our last coupons for the month. Perruque was the only whole-lifer. He patronised us as though we were hospital cases, full of sympathy, but with a malicious twinkle in his eye, and overflowing with promises to look after our interests in our absence. The old mountebank was so obviously delighted at being one up on us that it was all I could do to stop myself telling him what I think of him and the dreary, turgid rubbish he puts on paper. I'd have done it too, if I didn't hope to succeed him one of these days in the Academy

That said, despite the laughs, his stories always carry some tragedy: all of them are born out of the War and the everyday cowardice witnessed during the Occupation, and, more importantly, after it.

This is En attendant, which simply tells the tragic, ordinary stories of a group of people waiting for food during the War.

Other stories have a fairy tale feel to them: a woman who can clone herself and uses her power to love the many men in her life; or in the Seven-league boots, a group of children comes to desire boots they believe to be magical and that desire disturbs the social order separating their parents.